


oh, this town (it's so electric)

by izzybusiness



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 06:12:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8521540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzybusiness/pseuds/izzybusiness
Summary: “You don’t take any photos of people,” Kenny says conversationally, and Craig stills. He knows which pictures were in that stack: a ton of Stripe, some of the field, one of the moon. “I only take pictures of things I like,” Craig replies, forcing down the thought of his shots of Tweek, tucked away in that drawer in his darkroom, gathering dust.He took more pictures of him than he could count, but in the end, he only kept his favorites. They were Tweek at his best: laughing over a cup of coffee, concentrating hard on a video game, smiling at Craig like he deserved it.





	

Contrary to popular belief, there are actually some things that Craig Tucker does care about. Stripe is the first, Tweek is— _was_ —the second, and getting out of the shit-hole town that is South Park is the third. 

Truth be told, that last one has always been more of a vague, half-formed plan that lurked at the back of his mind; a daydream Craig only allows himself to fully entertain in the dead of the night. It’s the only time he lets himself think about a scorching sun and palm trees, images so different from the snow-strewn blanket that is his hometown. 

But with Stripe nearing the end of his approximated lifespan, getting slower and more lethargic with each passing day, and any thought of Tweek causing the imaginary space within Craig’s chest to contract painfully, that leaves skipping town as his only saving grace. 

The end of his junior year of high school brings with it the inconvenient realization that leaving South Park is going to need money, which he expressly does not have. Token leaves for another one of his European adventures, once again extending the invitation to Craig and Clyde. Clyde, the freeloading bastard that he is, takes Token up on his offer this time around. Craig empathetically declines, and instead gets a job manning the concession stand at the town’s only pool in an effort to starve off the inevitable boredom of a summer without his best friends.

Craig had fully prepared himself to spend two months alone, so when his manager introduces him to his new co-worker three days in, he has to fight to keep the flash of annoyance that flares up within him from showing. It’s Kenny McCormick, dressed in the same off-white polo and khaki shorts as Craig, plus a huge smile on his face. 

Much like the rest of their town, the local pool is a shitty place with not much regular visitors. The concession stand is hot and crammed from floor-to-ceiling with goods no one ever wants to buy, and there’s barely enough free space for one chair, let alone two. The music that blares perpetually from the overhead speakers is mind-numbingly loud, and the faint smell of frying oil seeps its way into everything. Craig’s gotten used to smelling like a carnival at this point. 

Once they’re alone, Kenny immediately collapses onto one of the foldable chairs, his body barely managing to squeeze itself into the small space Craig’s allotted for him. He turns towards Craig, and the first thing out of his mouth is, “You gonna wear that all summer?” 

Craig knows what he’s referring to. The blue chullo isn’t part of their regulation uniform, but he likes to think of it as an extension of himself. It isn’t the same one he’d worn throughout elementary school—he’d grown out of that one years ago—but a nearly exact replica, a gift from Tweek on his fourteenth birthday. It’s one of the only things Craig allows himself to remember Tweek by. 

But since exactly zero of this is any of McCormick’s business, Craig just shrugs. “Maybe.” 

Kenny shoots him an amused look, the corners of his lips quirking upwards. “Dude, I’m sweating just looking at you.” 

“Don’t look at me, then,” Craig immediately responds, already bored with this conversation. 

Kenny says nothing in response, and Craig stupidly hopes that he’ll keep to himself for the rest of their shift. It’s going to be a long enough summer as it is; he doesn’t want to have to deal with Kenny McCormick on top of everything. 

Just as Craig begins to let himself hope, Kenny’s voice cuts through the brief silence. “Isn’t this something?” He tilts back in his chair, letting his arms rest behind his head. The sunlight that streams in through the open window hits his blonde hair, illuminating it. Craig’s eyes start to hurt just watching him. 

Maybe he means it as a kind of personal challenge, but Craig doesn’t let himself look away. “What is?”

“The two hottest guys in school, working the same job,” Kenny replies dryly, an undercurrent of humor to his expression. “If only the girls could see us now.” 

Craig rolls his eyes before he can stop himself. Last year, the girls in their grade released an updated version of The List, which ranked every boy in South Park High according to who was the cutest. Kenny had been the first, Craig, the second. To Craig’s everlasting disappointment, Eric Cartman had not been the last. 

Speaking of which. “Where are the rest of your asshole friends?” Craig’s not curious exactly, couldn’t really give a shit either way, but he figures the rest of his vacation might be more bearable if he didn’t have Cartman coming over just to be a douchebag. 

Kenny gives him this look, like he knows precisely what Craig is thinking. It’s always unnerved Craig, how transparent Kenny is about everything. It makes him wonder what he’s really hiding. 

“Aspen,” Kenny states, squinting a bit when the light shifts over to him. “Stan’s friend got them jobs working at some resort.”

Craig briefly resists asking, hoping to end this overly prolonged conversation, but mild interest gets the better of him. “Why aren’t you with them?” 

To this, Kenny raises an eyebrow at him, like he’s surprised Craig even has to ask. “Couldn’t afford the trip there.” He pauses, about to say more, but then a woman and her toddler come over and he deftly hands them both sodas like he’s been doing this for years. Maybe he has. It’s not like Craig’s ever bothered wondering what Kenny McCormick gets up to when he’s not at school. 

For some reason, this causes Craig’s gut to twist uncomfortably, so he snorts and says, “Did you just say _Cartman_ is working? He’ll be fired before the week’s done.” 

“Or burned the place down at the very least,” Kenny adds, smiling slightly. Then he shakes his head, looking a little fond. “Nah. Kyle will keep him in line, that’s for sure.” 

Craig sincerely doubts that, seeing as Broflovski is probably the least intimidating person he knows besides Clyde. But Kenny’s got this all-knowing smirk on his face, daring Craig to disagree just so he can prove him wrong, so Craig gives him a bored shrug in return. “We’ll see.” 

When their shift ends, Kenny salutes him before walking down the street, taking a sharp left turn through the alley Craig knows will take him straight past the train tracks. Craig makes his way home as quickly as possible, taking care to keep his head down as he passes the storefronts along the main road.

—

June begins, and with it comes the most oppressive heat Craig remembers experiencing. He’s never usually out much during the summer, mostly spending his days within the cool confines of Token’s mansion, playing video games or orbiting in space, or in Tweek’s room, the door locked and the shutters drawn. 

But Token’s in Paris, periodically sending him pictures and videos of Clyde attempting to flirt with French girls near the Eiffel Tower, and Tweek isn’t his to keep to himself anymore. In their place, he’s got Kenny. 

They’ve managed to establish some kind of rapport, no doubt the product of being locked in a small space they’d rather not be in. Craig’s never really had much of a problem with McCormick, anyway, aside from the company he keeps. Oh, and that whole Peruvian disaster might have had something to do with it. But now, Craig thinks he’d be partly intrigued by the guy if he had the capacity to do so. 

Kenny nudges him hard, startling Craig out of his sun-drenched stupor. “Eight.” 

Craig follows the line of Kenny’s earnest stare, eyes landing on a brunette lying stretched out on a pink beach towel, the rays of the sun hitting her skin perfectly. “Five,” he says, unimpressed. 

Kenny snorts, drumming his fingers on the countertop. “What a shocker.” 

“Use words, McCormick,” Craig replies, narrowing his eyes slightly. 

Kenny sucks in a deep breath, his eyes glinting mischievously as the tempo of his finger-tapping increases. Craig just watches him impassively, unwilling to let him know that he’s succeeded in piquing his interest. It’s become like a game, their interactions with each other. 

Finally, Kenny exhales and states, “You like blondes.” The smugness that’s radiating off him is so strong, Craig can practically feel it filling up their little box in waves of pretentious jerk. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Craig grits out, trying to mull over the implications of Kenny’s declaration. He hates that he even has to ask, but McCormick’s got him stumped for once. 

The stupid smirk is back, Kenny’s mouth curling upwards. If possible, he looks even more unbearable than usual. “You only like blondes,” he explains. “I don’t think you’ve ever given a non-blonde anything over a six.” 

Craig glowers at him, resenting the notion that he’s got anything as juvenile as a _type_. “I do not.” Tweek is blonde, but that’s basically the extent of it. Sure, he’s never found Testaburger as attractive as Marsh claims she is, but he figures that’s because she’s been tainted by the likes of him. 

“Keep telling yourself that, Tucker,” Kenny replies patronizingly, and it’s obvious he doesn’t believe Craig. It makes his blood boil, the way McCormick thinks he knows what Craig wants. He can’t stand being told who he is, he never has. 

“Get fucked, McCormick,” Craig growls. 

“Girls are boring, anyway,” Kenny says in response. The change in weather means that more people have been visiting the pool, and Kenny casts his gaze around, surveying the crowd in front of him. “How about him?” He tilts his head in the direction of a tall tanned guy in gray board shorts, dirty-blonde hair disheveled and choppy. “I say nine,” he adds appreciatively. 

Craig is aware of Kenny’s reputation, of course. First kid in their grade to reach every physical milestone without ever being involved in an actual relationship. Kenny’s always been open and shameless about his bisexuality, being known to prefer girls in the past, but recently moving over to guys with no explanation. Craig harbors an almost grudging respect for him, being who he wants to be just like that. 

Craig never got a say in the matter. He’d been dating Tweek since before he was even old enough to know what it meant. The whole town had forced itself on the two of them, and they were stuck together without knowing if it was what either of them really wanted. 

And it was fine, at least for a little while. Then Craig started to grow resentful, even more so when he realized that girls just didn’t get it up for him anymore. 

“Four,” Craig says dismissively, partly because he wants to prove Kenny wrong, and mostly because it’s the truth. Craig’s had one type his whole life, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever have another. 

He waits for Kenny to call bullshit, but he stays quiet, watching Craig as if he actually understands. Craig turns his head forward before he gives anything else away.

—

Craig got his first camera as a gift on his eleventh birthday. It had been nothing more than this cheap instant one, but the moment he held it up and looked through the lens, Craig knew he finally found the way to make his shitty town look a fraction less shitty. 

He took pictures of everything that day, using up all the film by the end of it. He remembers there being tons of Stripe, who was still strong and agile, proudly showing off for Craig on his hamster wheel. The last one he snapped was a simple shot of the night sky outside, a testament to his lifelong obsession with space.

Over time, Craig managed to save up enough for a proper film camera, and though he’ll never admit it in words, photography is pretty much his passion. Or one of the few things he genuinely enjoys doing, at the very least. 

Most days after work, he’ll head over to the abandoned cornfield behind the pool, his new favorite shooting spot. There’s just something about the tall grass, turned yellow-orange by the sunlight, and the way the wind blows the fronds that tickle his ankles as he trudges through them that makes him feel like he’s so far away from everything he knows. When he’s not taking pictures, he likes to lie on the ground and close his eyes, knowing and not caring that doing so probably makes him come off as a try-hard hipster.

One afternoon, Craig’s sunbathing session is disturbed by a dark shadow falling over him, and when he reluctantly cracks an eye open, Kenny’s stupid face is beaming down at him, blonde hair casting glares off the sunlight. Craig’s starting to fear that he’ll end up seeing this asshole even in his dreams. 

“So this is where you disappear off to after work,” Kenny says, still blocking the way. 

“Stalking me, McCormick?” Craig returns languidly, sitting up and brushing dirt from his shoulders. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” 

As soon as the question leaves his mouth, Craig realizes that he doesn’t actually know what Kenny does after the clock ticks over to five and their shift ends. It bugs Craig out of his mind when he figures that he’s asking because he _wants_ to know. The frequent UV exposure has clearly altered something inside him. 

Kenny finally moves aside and falls down next to him. There’s still a smile on his face, but it’s twisted into this thing that’s lopsided and unsure. “Not particularly.” 

Craig cocks an annoyed brow, but then Kenny shrugs lamely, and Craig finds himself looking at Kenny, _really_ looking at him. His uniform polo is unwashed, still bearing a stain on it from the week before when he’d accidentally spilled ketchup on himself. He’s pulling at the frayed ends of his shorts subconsciously, like it’s a gesture he does often. 

Kenny puts on a brave exterior, but he can’t hide everything. Especially not from someone like Craig, who notices more than people usually do. 

“Fine, stay,” Craig grumbles, pretending he doesn’t see the relief wash over Kenny’s expression. “But talk and you die.” 

Kenny stretches his legs out and props his upper body on his forearms, letting the last of the afternoon sun wash over him in strokes of bright yellow. “My lips are sealed.”

—

One week later, Kenny bounds into the concession stand wearing a truly shit-eating grin. Craig, who had already stolen a can of Coke for himself, passes another one over to him. He toys with the idea of keeping quiet just to annoy Kenny, who so clearly has news to share, but he dismisses it. “What?” 

Kenny takes a long swig of his drink before slamming the can down on the counter, his foot tapping out an uneven rhythm and beads of sweat rolling down the side of his head. He’s mostly buzzing with untapped energy when he declares, “Stan walked in on Kyle and Cartman fucking.” 

Despite himself, Craig blinks, stunned. He hadn’t been expecting that. “Shit.” 

In all honesty, Craig’s always thought about what Kyle might be like in bed; all that self-righteous anger has to come out somewhere. He’d even briefly entertained this fantasy of Kyle using him as a sort of stand-in for Marsh, until Craig realized he’d have to gain at least forty pounds and start spewing out racist slurs before Kyle would give him the time of day. 

Kenny nods excitedly, still bouncing in his seat. Craig starts to get dizzy from watching this, so he grabs hold of his arm to steady him. Kenny’s skin is warm beneath his, and the sudden flash of contact makes his hand feel too heavy all of a sudden. He quickly jerks it back just as Kenny adds, “Stan shit a brick.” 

Now that comes as no surprise to Craig. Marsh has always been dramatic. “I sort of feel sorry for Broflovski,” he remarks. “Being attracted to that fatass.” 

“He’s not that bad,” Kenny argues, still a bit restless. 

“Why do you even put up with him?” Until the words leave his lips, Craig had no idea how much he actually wanted to know. Sure, Cartman’s toned down a lot since they were kids, but old habits die hard and the guy is still a major dick when it comes down to it. 

To his surprise, Kenny sobers up immediately, the strange half-smile back on his face. Craig’s come to recognize it as a nervous gesture, an act that precedes his vulnerability. “I used to get…” He pauses, trying to puzzle the words out in his head. “…injured a lot as a kid. I guess it happened so often that people stopped noticing?” he explains hesitantly, avoiding Craig’s eyes. “Everyone except Cartman.”

Craig racks his brain, trying to probe into what Kenny is saying, but he comes up empty. He does have a few vague memories of watching Kenny being wheeled into ambulances, but he can’t quite summon the images to mind. Still, there’s something about how Kenny is astutely not looking at him that tells him there’s more to this story than he’s letting on. 

“That still doesn’t justify tolerating Eric Cartman,” Craig mutters under his breath, but Kenny hears and laughs in surprise, leaving Craig feeling strangely validated. “I guess that leaves Marsh as what, the only straight guy in your group?” he adds, trying to switch gears. 

It works. Kenny cracks a grin, like Craig’s stumbled upon something private. “It’s nothing,” he says, waving away Craig’s arched eyebrow. “It’s just this inside joke we have, about Stan being the only average one out of the four of us.” 

Craig can kind of see the truth to this. With Broflovski being Jewish, Kenny being poor, and Cartman being Hitler’s spawn, Marsh really is the epitome of the classic all-American kid. No wonder Craig can’t stand him. 

“Except for his dad, maybe,” he snorts, although he doesn’t really have much room to talk. Craig is of the firm belief that every adult in town is insane in their own way. It’s the only probable reason for why anyone would choose to settle down in a place like South Park in the first place. 

“Randy _is_ a little weird,” Kenny concedes, as if he hasn’t just uttered the understatement of the millennium. Craig’s lips twitch upwards for what is probably the first time since their job started.

—

One afternoon marks a strange shift in their otherwise boring routine. A little girl, maybe younger than five, dressed in a striped bathing suit with a rubber duck clutched to her side, comes up to them in tears because she can’t find her mom. 

Craig moves to sit up, but Kenny is out of the booth like a shot, and Craig watches him crouch down and talk to the girl in soothing whispers, his words indistinguishable but producing a noticeable effect. Craig takes in her tear-stained face, notes how her expression slowly shifts from fearful to relaxed in Kenny’s company. 

Kenny spends the rest of their shift playing with her: splashing her around in the kiddie pool, making up ridiculous stories about her toy duck, walking her throughout the whole complex trying to find her mom. By the time the sun’s dipped down in the sky and the girl’s mother rushes over, full of profuse thanks for Kenny, Craig feels like something’s tightened inside his body. 

Sometimes Craig thinks he doesn’t have a heart, in the figurative sense of the word. Instead he’s got this hollow space carved out within the confines of his chest, empty air and pumping blood taking its place. Tweek had been the closest thing he’d ever come to feeling whole, and since their breakup, Craig’s felt its absence more acutely. 

That probably explains why when Kenny comes back and takes his seat, Craig can’t look at him. He doesn’t want him to see this strange sensation that’s gradually retuning to his body.

“I taught Karen how to swim in this pool,” Kenny offers up suddenly, apropos of nothing.

Craig remembers seeing Karen McCormick around his house once or twice, she and Tricia disappearing off to do whatever girls did. He’d always been too busy with Tweek to really take notice of her. 

He’s suddenly jealous of the way Kenny loves his sister, with something so fierce and immediate. It must be nice, to be able to feel that strongly about someone. 

“Cool, McCormick,” Craig says tightly around the lump that has formed in his throat.

Kenny leans over, his face coming within an inch of Craig’s own, blue eyes boring into steely gray ones. “You don’t fool me, Tucker,” he whispers, deceptively soft. 

Craig knows, is the thing.

—

“You’re fucking with me,” Craig says flatly, turning his head to the right so he can glare at Kenny accusingly. 

“Nope,” Kenny replies. “I’m totally fucking serious.” He’s wearing these stupid sunglasses that are covering half his face, but from the size of his grin, Craig knows Kenny’s looking at him like the superior douche he is. 

“ _Is This It_ is the best Strokes album ever made,” Craig counters hotly, threading his fingers through the tendrils of grass that are curled underneath him in frustration. “Saying otherwise just makes you consumerist trash.” 

Kenny laughs loudly, his mouth opening wide to reveal pearly white teeth. “Call me trash, then. I stand by _Room on Fire_ ,” he responds, breaking into another bout of laughter when he catches the brief flash on indignation that passes over Craig’s expression. 

“God,” Craig says, tone full of faux-disgust. “You probably think _Angles_ is a great album.” 

“It _is_ a great album!” Kenny exclaims, tone brimming with suppressed mirth. Craig hates him so much right now. 

They’re lying side by side on a sunken patch of grass facing the wired gate, Craig’s camera bag tossed to his left and his phone in the space between their bodies, earphones split. Somehow, without him really noticing, days like these have turned into another one of his summer routines. He thinks there are even times when he actually looks forward to the hours he spends here. 

“Jesus Christ, McCormick,” Craig intones, yanking his phone towards him. “You have terrible taste in music.” This isn’t true, strictly speaking. Craig had been surprised by how much he and Kenny actually had in common. He’s not sure what precisely he expected McCormick to listen to, but then again, he never expected anything of him to begin with.

Kenny sits up and holds his hand out, amusement still lurking beneath his outwardly neutral glance. “Hand it over, Tucker.” It’s his turn to choose a song, with Craig using the last round to play “Someday,” the track that sparked their debate. 

Kenny types something on the screen, and then a song Craig has never heard before starts off. Its intro is soft and lilting, the melody swelling until it fills the air around them, the lyrics pouring out until they’re swept away in a swirl of words. 

“Trust me,” Kenny adds as he lies back down, “if there’s ever anything you need to listen to while lying in a field, it’s this one.”

With his face turned towards the bright blue sky and his stupid sunglasses, the last remnants of this tune washing over them, Craig is suddenly hit with just how attractive Kenny really is. The edges of the space within his chest throb painfully until he’s nearly consumed by it. 

“Hey, Tucker.” Kenny’s teasing voice cuts through all the noise in Craig’s head, and he looks over at him, somewhat gratefully. “Admit it, my taste is better than yours.” 

Craig returns his gaze to the sun before replying. “You wish, McCormick.”

—

That night, Craig spends his time in the closet he’d converted into a darkroom, looking through all the freshly developed pictures of things he’d taken recently. He smiles at the ones of Stripe, sleeping in the midmorning sun and drinking from his water pipe. His initial shots of the cornfield turn out really well, the yellow-gold color of the grass translating perfectly onto film.

He’s sifting through the images in satisfaction, until he comes across one and his hands freeze. It’s the field—grass in the foreground and blue sky in the back—but to the leftmost side of the frame is Kenny, sitting on the dirt and minding his own business, like he usually does when Craig is busy shooting. Craig hadn’t even noticed he was in the shot until now. 

Craig contemplates tearing the photo to pieces and pretending it never existed, but something inside him tells him to keep it. Instead, he shoves it deep into the recesses of a drawer in his darkroom, along with the other photos of things he won’t let himself forget. 

Later on, he plugs in his earphones, pointedly not allowing himself to remember the last time he used them, and drowns himself in Morrissey’s voice, letting him sing the sad songs of nostalgia, love lost, and escaping town. When “Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want” comes on, Craig tells himself it means nothing.

—

“On a scale of one to ten,” Kenny begins, pausing to take another drag from his cigarette, “how much would it suck to still live here in ten years?” 

Craig snorts, his own stick dangling from the corner of his mouth as he fiddles with his lighter. “Ten?” he echoes derisively. “I don’t think I’ll last another five.” He finally gets a light and inhales, letting the nicotine seep its way into his system, blanking his mind. 

The back area behind their manager’s office is the only place in the whole complex decent enough for a smoke break, and while the smell coming from the nearby garbage cans isn’t exactly ideal, the fact that it’s directly in front of the wired fence that faces their field somewhat makes up for it. 

They’re not technically supposed to take their breaks at the same time, so when Kenny had gone off first, Craig sat alone for precisely ten minutes until he decided to fuck it and followed Kenny out here. The pleasantly surprised smile that had spread across Kenny’s face when Craig slipped in to stand next to him sent a jolt running through Craig’s spine. 

“I’ll do anything to get out of this town,” Craig says absently, once the smoke has fully settled into his body, leaving his insides still and calm. 

Kenny arches an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling. “Anything, huh?” He moves in closer, basically plastering himself to Craig’s side, who doesn’t move away. He doesn’t know what game Kenny’s playing, but he’s never been one to back down from a challenge. “So, you’d suck my dick if I had enough money to send you out of here?” he whispers in Craig’s ear, breath warm. 

Craig feels the back of his neck prickle, but he fights to keep his expression indifferent. “You don’t have money.” 

Kenny snorts, his head still resting on Craig’s shoulder. “Damn straight, I don’t.” He moves away, returning to his original spot, and Craig convinces himself he doesn’t mind. “So you’re telling me you wouldn’t suck my dick?” 

“In your dreams, McCormick,” Craig returns lazily, not exactly answering the question. Truth is, he doesn’t know what he’d do anymore.

“You got that right,” Kenny replies, and for once, Craig can’t read anything behind the impish grin. “Just kidding,” he adds quickly. “I can’t be associated with someone who hates John Lennon.” 

“George Harrison is the only member of The Beatles with any actual talent,” Craig says, feeling the tension mounting within him. “How anyone can even think—” he starts, then stops mid-sentence when he catches Kenny laughing at him. “You’re a dick, McCormick,” he mutters darkly. 

Kenny beams at him unapologetically. “What can I do?” he responds, lifting a shoulder. “Emotion suits you, Tucker.” 

Craig says nothing and continues to glower, hoping to stare him down, but Kenny just shakes his head, a smile still tugging at the ends of his lips. “Nah, I guess you wouldn’t be _you_ if you went around being opinionated all the time.” He brings the cigarette back up to his mouth and blows out another smoky cloud. “Believe it or not, I like your asshole self just the way you are.”

“Whatever,” Craig mumbles, trying to ignore his stomach curling in on itself in a manner that is not wholly unpleasant. “Your NASCAR obsession is stupid.” 

“Says the guy who watched _Red Racer_ everyday after school,” Kenny retorts, throwing his finished stick to the ground and stepping on it. 

“ _Red Racer_ was a great show,” Craig defends. He’d been honest-to-God heartbroken when its syndication finally ended. That had been the first out of the two times Craig’s ever felt that way. 

“Sure, Craig,” Kenny says placatingly, walking past him to head back to the stand. Craig flips him off then follows suit, and it’s only when they’re back inside the booth does it register in Craig’s head that Kenny used his real name for the first time all summer.

—

Craig’s half-asleep, one cheek pressed into his pillow, when he hears the unmistakeable sound of something being tossed at his windowpane. The noise doesn’t cease when he tries to ignore it, so he peels himself off his bed and stumbles over to the other end of the room. 

In the dark, he can barely make out the sidewalk through the blurred pinpricks of brightness that the streetlights cast over everything, but when his eyes finally focus on the figure waiting in the semi-darkness, they widen slightly. Kenny is standing in front of his house beside a car that looks like it’s been to hell and back, throwing pebbles at Craig’s bedroom window. 

Craig pushes the windowsill open and barely manages to dodge in time to avoid being hit by a rock that flies into his room. “What the fuck, McCormick?” 

“Come on, Juliet,” Kenny calls out, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s got his orange parka thrown on, and Craig can’t remember the last time he’d seen him wear it. It’s a bit strange how it actually fits him properly now. “I’m kidnapping you for the night.” 

“Don’t I see enough of you at work?” Craig asks, feigning annoyance. He hates the way his body thrums just a little in anticipation. 

“Tucker,” Kenny says earnestly, and there’s that look on his face again, the one that makes Craig’s insides feel like they’re being wrung out. “Just do it for me.” 

“Fine, whatever,” Craig mutters back, even though he’s sure Kenny can’t hear him. He slams the glass shut and puts on a jacket and his hat before making his way into the dark. 

Kenny has the door open and waiting for him, and he quickly ushers Craig towards it, like he’s afraid Craig will bolt at any second. Before he moves past him, Craig pauses, one hand resting on the car’s scratched surface. “McCormick,” he says gruffly.

Kenny lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah?” 

“ _I’m_ Romeo,” Craig says, empathetic. Then he stalks into the warmth of the vehicle, closes the door beside him. 

Kenny slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car, his answering grin bright enough to light up the entire street. He backs out of the driveway to start their journey to wherever, mouth quirked up in amusement. “Whatever you say, man.”

—

Craig will never admit it, but he’s somewhat disappointed when Kenny drives up to the pool complex. “Seriously?” He shoots Kenny an annoyed stare as they walk towards the locked gate. “We were just here.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Kenny answers back distractedly, and Craig scowls. He fiddles around in his pockets for something, and then makes a triumphant noise as he pulls out a set of rusty keys wrapped around a ring. “Got them!” 

“Where did you get that?” Craig asks, mildly impressed. He watches as Kenny works the lock on the steel gate that encloses the main pool area. 

“Stole them, how else?” Kenny snorts as he pushes the entrance open, the screech of metal scraping against concrete echoing ominously around their empty surroundings. To Craig, the sound signals the beginning of a night full of promise. 

Kenny feels along the wall enclosing the pool, and then the whole place is bathed in brightness, blue lights reflecting off the water and moving in swirling ripples across the white walls. Craig’s hand twitches, and he wishes he thought to bring his camera with him. 

He settles down on one of the lounge chairs, observing as Kenny unlocks another door and ambles casually into the manager’s office like he’s not breaking and entering. It’s the first time his easygoing manner has interested rather than irritated Craig, and he wonders if he’d even be able to pinpoint when the shift happened. “Why are we here, McCormick?”

“Live a little, Tucker,” Kenny singsongs, then with a burst of static, music comes flooding out of the speakers, loud and clear. 

“Oh, God,” Craig intones when the opening chords kick in and he hears the lyrics. 

“Come on, Craig,” Kenny declares, and Craig thinks it’s such a low blow, Kenny using his first name like that. “You should be dancing,” he adds, singing the words along with the song. 

“Not to the Bee Gees,” Craig responds as empathetically as possible. He takes back everything he’s ever thought about Kenny having decent taste in music. 

Kenny grins at him and says, “Suit yourself.” Before Craig can get a word in, Kenny strips off his parka, revealing his bare chest underneath. His torso is long and lean, and with the glowing blue lights of the pool bouncing off him, he looks almost like a dream. Craig turns away before Kenny catches him staring. 

It’s only when Craig hears the telltale splash of water does he look back and find Kenny floating in the pool, watching him expectantly. “Well,” he demands, “are you coming in or what?” 

Craig’s first instinct is a firm Fuck No, but there’s something about this moment, hell, this whole fucking summer, that makes him feel like he’s playing a part in someone else’s life. He shrugs out of his jacket and tears his hat off, tossing them both onto one of the chairs. Making sure to keep his gaze down, he pulls his shirt over his head and wades into the lukewarm water. 

Kenny’s surveying him carefully, looking at him in a way he never has before, and Craig can’t quite read the meaning behind it. It makes him feel raw and open, and he’s not entirely sure he likes the sensation. The last time he felt this way had been on a cold night under the light of a streetlamp, with Tweek staring at him like he was the worst person in the world. 

Fortunately, Kenny seems to come to his senses and returns to his usual self, a knowing smirk pulling at the edges of his mouth. “Knew you’d look good without that hat on.” 

Craig is used to getting complimented for his looks, but this one comment from Kenny is what causes a flush to rise to his cheeks, even if just slightly. 

“Whatever,” he says, then splashes water at Kenny to shut him up. Kenny’s answering laugh resounds into the empty sky.

—

They float around for what feels like eternity, Craig letting the water propel him back and forth, and this endless motion paired with the lights at the bottom of the pool casts an eerie glow over everything, setting the stage for something vaguely otherworldly. A Daft Punk album is playing on the speakers ( _Discovery_ , not that _Random Access Memories_ bullshit), and Craig just wants to drift away into the night, weightless.

“I can sing, you know.” Kenny’s drowsy proclamation shatters the comfortable silence that had fallen over them, and Craig moves upwards so he can shoot Kenny a questioning glance, which basically looks exactly the same as his everyday expression. Tweek used to joke that Craig had a million variations of the same bored stare, and that it was his job to sift through each of them, trying to figure out what they meant.

“Seriously,” Kenny continues, tone as earnest as Craig’s ever heard it. “I was a huge hit in Romania.” 

Craig snorts skeptically. “Right.” 

Kenny sighs, his head dropping back down towards the dark sky. “Always such a critic,” he adds with a low whistle. 

After a few more minutes, Craig paddles over to the edge of the pool, pushes himself up so that he’s seated on the concrete ground, his feet dangling in the water. “Why are we here, McCormick?” It’s been bugging him the whole night, this unanswered question that’s been pressing at the forefront of his mind. 

He half-expects Kenny to brush off his inquiry with another one of his ambiguous smiles, so he’s a bit surprised when Kenny swims in his direction, moving up to sit next to him. His hair is slicked back and his body radiates warmth. It makes Craig shiver involuntarily. 

“I just…” Kenny begins hesitantly, kicking his feet back and forth in the water “I didn’t really want to be home.” Craig blinks and Kenny continues. “Karen’s at a friend’s house for the night. I usually stay. For her. But when she’s gone, I do this.” 

Craig pauses, trying to keep any semblance of emotion from coming out in his voice. “You’ve been doing this a lot?” 

“Sometimes?” Kenny shrugs, eyes glazed over as he watches the pool ripple at his movements. “I usually go over to Stan’s or Kyle’s, shit, even Cartman’s. But they’re not here, so.”

Craig feels his respect for Marsh and his stupid gang rise just ever so slightly. “But why’d you bring me out tonight?” 

At this, Kenny pointedly does not look at him. “You make everything more interesting.” 

There’s got to be something lodged in Craig’s throat, that is the only possible reason for why everything suddenly feels too heavy and intense, the two of them trapped in this small sphere with the rest of the world encroaching on the fringes of their sanctuary. He’s not sure what compels him to do so, because God knows that honesty’s never done anything for him, but he blurts out, “I broke up with Tweek.” 

Kenny finally turns to him, slightly startled. “Yeah. I mean, I figured.” 

Craig just watches Kenny, hating this and hating himself for bringing it up at all, but Kenny gets to him in a way no one really ever has. “No, I, uh.” He cannot, literally cannot, remember the last time he’d been at a loss for words. He’s never had a need for them, sometimes he forgets that it’s because he’s not good with them at all.

He blows out a frustrated sigh, and before he knows it, the entire story comes tumbling out of his mouth. “I wasn’t gay, when this whole thing started. Then this stupid fucking town and all those people, they just. Forced it. Forced us. I hate being told what to do, but it’s more fucked up when people try and tell you who you are. It was fine at first, just pretending. Then I realized I wasn’t pretending anymore. Neither of us were.” 

The thing is, it had been okay in the beginning. It had even been _good_. Tweek had become every bit a part of his life as Stripe is, but then Craig started to resent him, resent what his very presence in Craig’s life meant. It all became too much in the end. 

He looks away and braces himself for some kind of sympathetic bullshit sentiment, but he also forgets that this is Kenny he’s talking to. Kenny, who can read him almost as well as Tweek can. Kenny, who knows what exactly Craig wants to hear, so instead he says, “Wow. That is the most I’ve ever heard you say in one go,” like Craig didn’t just bare what’s left of his soul. 

Craig, who won’t ever let Kenny see how truly grateful he is, just replies, “Don’t get used to it.” 

Kenny laughs, and just like that, the moment is gone. The bubble they’d built for themselves has been pierced, and reality swoops back in to stake its claim. The sky overhead is just a little cloudier, steam rising from the pool up and away. Even the music playing in the background suddenly seems louder and more amplified. 

“Shit, I love this song,” Kenny comments when the chords filter in through the quiet atmosphere. “But there’s something about us, I want to say,” he sings exaggeratedly, still grinning at Craig. “‘Cause there’s something between us, anyway.” 

In the end, it’s not the fact that Kenny’s voice is really fucking good that causes Craig to feel like all the air’s been sucked from his lungs. It’s the fact that he can’t actually remember the last time a song’s lyrics hit so close to home.

—

Kenny drives them both back to Craig’s house in silence, the windows down and the cool breeze whipping through them. Outside, the neighborhood is still and calm, and Craig watches as the glowing red numbers of the clock on the dash change to three. 

When he finally stops in front of Craig’s, Kenny turns to him and smiles tiredly. “It’s been fun, Tucker. I’ll see you in six hours,” he adds, noting the time. 

Craig doesn’t make to open the door. “What are you going to do now?” His tone is still careful and guarded, not wanting to give too much away, even though he knows they both just came from a place that they can’t come back down from. 

“Wherever the wind takes me,” Kenny replies sardonically, and when Craig glares at him, he merely shrugs blithely. “Probably just drive around.” 

“Or you can come inside.” The suggestion is out of his mouth before Craig even registers thinking it, but once it’s there, he has no intention of taking it back. 

Kenny freezes. “What?” 

“You heard me.” Craig opens the door and steps outside. It’s colder at this time of the night and he’s already itching to be inside the warmth of his room. “Are you coming or what?” He’s tired all of a sudden, fatigue settling on his bones. He doesn’t have the energy to play another one of their games. 

Kenny steps out, slow and unsure, like he’s waiting for the punchline. “You surprise me everyday, Tucker,” he says, following Craig through the dimly lit house and up the stairs. 

Craig’s room is exactly how he left it—crumpled blanket kicked to the foot of the bed, his camera placed pristinely at the center of his wooden study desk. He immediately wanders over to Stripe’s cage, and when Craig sees him still asleep on his little pile of hay, he lets out a sigh of relief. 

Kenny’s surveying the contents of Craig’s room with great interest, and Craig finds him standing by his bookshelf, looking at the comic books stacked neatly on top of each other. “You alphabetize your comics?” he asks, and Craig thinks he sounds fucking delighted. 

“Fuck off,” Craig returns, moving over to his closet and rifling through it for clothes to change into. 

“I knew it,” Kenny declares triumphantly, as he inspects the figurines along Craig’s bedside table. “You’re a nerd, Tucker,” he says, grinning up at him. His fingers trace the outlines of the stickers of the moon Craig has plastered on one of his walls. 

Tweek used to tease him about this, too. He’d joke about how only he got to see this side of Craig, laugh at the astronaut helmet he still has tucked away somewhere, and then Tweek would go home and look up random facts about space and constellations and text them over to him.

“Space is cool,” Craig retorts, and he has no idea why he’s even defending himself when he never bothered to before. But Kenny is beaming at him, looking at Craig like he’s the most fascinating person he’s ever come across when it’s really the other way around. 

“You’d make a hot astronaut,” Kenny replies instead, and Craig walks away before Kenny sees his blush. 

When Craig comes back from the bathroom, holding an extra blanket in his hand, he catches Kenny sitting on his bedroom floor, idly flicking through the stack of photos that Craig keeps on his desk. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks darkly, but Kenny doesn’t even look remotely embarrassed to have been found snooping. 

“These are amazing,” he states factually, as if looking through people’s personal items is considered completely normal. 

Craig bounds over and grabs the images from Kenny’s grasp, setting them back down on his desk. “Stay out of my stuff, McCormick.” He turns around and starts shoving things off his bed, throwing them to the ground, trying to clear enough space for another person.

“You don’t take any photos of people,” Kenny says conversationally, and Craig stills. He knows which pictures were in that stack: a ton of Stripe, some of the field, one of the moon. 

“I only take pictures of things I like,” Craig replies, forcing down the thought of his shots of Tweek, tucked away in that drawer in his darkroom, gathering dust. 

He took more pictures of him than he could count, but in the end, he only kept his favorites. They were Tweek at his best: laughing over a cup of coffee, concentrating hard on a video game, smiling at Craig like he deserved it.

Kenny nods like he understands, and he probably does. “Sure,” he allows, pushing himself to his feet. He takes the blanket from Craig’s hand, and their fingers brush against each other briefly. “Thanks.” 

Craig’s bed is hardly big enough for two, but they still manage to lie next to each other, in the dark instead of in the fading sunlight, bedsheets under their backs instead of dry grass. In the darkness, Craig can hear only Kenny’s slow breathing, their hands barely touching. 

“I’ve died,” Kenny says suddenly, voice full of purpose, like he wants to get the words out before Craig can hear. “I die all the time and no one remembers. You won’t even remember this conversation tomorrow.” 

If Craig had a heart, he’s sure he’d be hearing his own heartbeat in his ears. “Why are you telling me this?” 

Kenny exhales and turns to look at Craig, eyes solemn and manner grave. “No one knows,” he explains, tone serious. Then he adds, “But I want you to. Even if it’s just for now.” 

Craig can already feel his brain fogging over with tiredness, the desire to sleep crashing over him in waves. “Okay, McCormick,” he says drowsily, reaching for Kenny’s hand, an anchor in this sea of exhaustion. “Okay.” 

Craig thinks he hears Kenny whisper something back as he surrenders to the weariness, but he can’t quite make it out. 

The next morning, Kenny’s alarm beeps relentlessly until they eventually stumble out of bed and around Craig’s room, half-dressed and half-awake. When they finally get to Kenny’s car, he’s looking at Craig in satisfaction, and it takes a while for Craig to realize it’s because he didn’t put his hat on. 

The entirety of their shift is spent in a state of semi-consciousness, and if anyone wonders why Kenny is wearing a parka in the dead of the summer, no one says anything.

—

July starts and nothing much changes in Craig’s life. If there are any, they’re minor and almost imperceptible, as if whatever happened in the past had all been leading up to the way things are now. He’s still not a particularly chatty person, but he indulges Kenny in his need for conversation more often than he used to. Their chairs are moved closer to each other, and they continue to take frequent smoke breaks together.

Kenny still follows him out when their shift is done, settling himself down on the outskirts of the field while Craig pokes around it with his camera. The only difference now is, sometimes Craig will find himself aiming the lens Kenny’s way, usually when he’s not looking and always candid. 

He also becomes somewhat attuned to Kenny’s need to stay over, noting how he always seems to fidget awkwardly as they walk towards their point of separation, something in his anxiety-laced expression that reminds Craig of Tweek. 

In the end, having an occasional roommate isn’t as bad as he expects. Kenny sleeps like the dead when he’s given the chance, so he doesn’t bother Craig much when he spends all night developing photos. More than once, Craig catches Kenny watching him play with Stripe, this unfathomable look in his eyes, and it makes Craig flush with the intensity of it. 

Kenny is like an angel when he’s asleep, all messy blonde hair and this serene air to him that’s usually absent in his waking hours. He definitely does not acknowledge the fact that he likes seeing Kenny stretched out on his bed like that, even if it’s in the most innocent way possible. He sends his pictures to Clyde and Token at times, and their pointed silence about their implications lets Craig know exactly what they’re thinking. 

The thing is, Craig’s a pretty self-aware guy. He totally knows what this means as well.

—

The middle part of the summer brings in the only hazards Craig has ever encountered since starting his job: desperate single mothers who come and try to flirt with the two of them. These women are all of one breed, carting around wailing toddlers as excuses to buy snacks, dressed in too-tight swimsuits with large pairs of sunglasses perched on top of dyed hair. 

Initially, the regular activity and the increase in income for the stand had been good and these womens’ advances amusing. Especially since they usually left Craig alone and went for Kenny, seeing as Craig’s normal appearance belied nothing but profound disdain. Kenny, on the other hand, was a natural charmer, even more so when he willingly turned it up. 

Then the days wore on and their attempts at conversation stopped being funny and started becoming mildly infuriating. Making up fake girlfriends with exaggerated beauty did nothing to detract them, and one day, Craig’s in the middle of zoning out while witnessing yet another conversation between Kenny and one of his admirers, when Kenny’s voice startles him out of it. 

“Sorry, Linda,” Kenny starts, his tone dripping with false remorse. “No can do. You see, Craig and I are together.” Before Craig knows it, Kenny’s arm is draped across his shoulders, his face halfway buried in Craig’s neck. 

“What?” Craig asks, barely an inflection in his statement. 

“Dude, I’m dying here. Please just play along,” Kenny whispers back, his proximity causing his breath to ghost along Craig’s collarbones, and he suppresses a shudder. 

Linda, this woman with a penchant for animal prints, purses her lips thoughtfully. “You two are gay?” She virtually spits the last word out, saying it like it’s the name of some kind of infectious disease, and Craig’s anger rises. 

“Yes, we are gay,” Craig grits out, and it takes him half a second to remember the last time he’d uttered those exact same words. “We belong together.” 

He tucks his arm around Kenny’s waist and pulls him close for emphasis, and when Kenny follows along and moves into his hold, Craig pretends he doesn’t enjoy the feel of it.

“Craig’s amazing in bed,” Kenny adds, smirking lewdly and punctuating his statement by pressing a wet kiss to Craig’s cheek, leaving a burning sensation as he does.

Finally satisfied with their performance, Linda walks off, throwing hateful glares at the two of them as she goes. For a minute, Craig forgets to move, forgets where he is, and all he does is concentrate on nothing else but the press of Kenny’s body against his. 

Then Kenny groans in relief and declares, “Thank God, she’s gone,” and Craig springs away from him in alarm. Kenny carefully extricates himself from Craig’s grasp and slumps down in his chair, eyes twinkling in the wake of their successful operation. 

Everything is suddenly too much for Craig. The space they’re in is too small, the air around them is too hot, the atmosphere is too tense. Kenny is too close, and at the same time, not close enough. Without thinking, he gets to his feet and pushes the door open, and when Kenny calls out after him and asks where he’s going, Craig mumbles a phrase that could have been, “Smoke break.”

On his own behind the manager’s office, Craig lights up and lets the smoke fill his lungs and the nicotine seep its way into his insides, essentially shutting down all the nerves firing in his body. 

Here’s the thing: Craig’s only felt like this once before. It had happened a few months before he turned fourteen, and it was the earth-shattering, blood-pumping-through-his-veins realization that what he had been faking was something he wished was real. 

That’s when he knows what he has to do.

—

Tweek Bros. Coffeehouse looks exactly the same as the last time Craig had been inside: cracked linoleum floors, dusty shelves full of expensive coffee blends that no one in their town can afford. Even the vinyl booths with their plastic tabletops and red leather are worn out in the same ways. 

Tweek’s sitting across from him in their usual spot, the last booth beside the glass window facing the street, all the way in the back. He’s twitching slightly in his seat, and Craig wonders if Tweek’s sleeping well, if he’s taking his anxiety medication, if he’s toned down on the coffee, before he remembers, with a slight pang to his chest, that it’s not his job anymore. 

The shop is mostly empty, save for Tweek’s dad, who is casting them furtive glances from the counter. Craig knows that he’s probably as welcome in here as the health inspector, but he needs this, needs to do this.

Tweek’s hand is lying on the surface of the table, and Craig instinctively reaches his own out to grab it, knowing from years of experience that it’ll stop his nervous shaking. He pauses midway, then folds his hands in his lap instead, pressing them together tightly. 

“What—what are you doing here?” Tweek asks eventually, breaking the awkward silence. He looks good. Really good. His hair isn’t as wild as it used to be and he’s wearing a T-shirt that isn’t crumpled, and this makes Craig’s chest ache even though it has no right to. 

“I just.” Craig hesitates and exhales, and for the first time in a long while, they’re Tweek and Craig. Tweek is the only person who has seen fully beyond the blank persona Craig carries around with him, so he lets himself stammer and pause like he does with no one else. “I—it was always you, okay? When we were dating, it was just you.” 

Tweek blinks rapidly at him, and Craig hopes he doesn’t start crying because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to take it right now, with everything inside him as frazzled as they are. “I know that,” Tweek replies. “Why are you telling me this?” 

“There’s someone,” Craig practically spits out, like the confession is being forced from him unwillingly. 

“Kenny,” Tweek supplies knowingly, and when Craig jerks his head upwards in surprise, Tweek gives him a nervous shrug. “Saw you guys walking back to yours once.” 

Craig lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “I just came here to…to let you know that.” He stops again, the phrases stuck in his throat. The thing about Craig is that people assume not much happens in his head, which is why he hardly lets anything out. In reality, there’s always too many things going on, he can barely string them all into words. “You were—are—enough.”

Tweek is still surveying him in confusion, so Craig makes an irritated noise then pulls a stack of pictures from his jacket pocket. They’re the ones he’d taken of Tweek, save for two that he kept for himself. He lays them down on the table and watches as Tweek picks them up and starts looking through them, wonder and quiet awe dawning on his face. Craig had never shown them to him before, but he hopes now that they’re enough to make him understand.

Craig’s not really certain if he knows what love is, or if he does, he’s not sure he’s even capable of it. Because if love is thinking about someone else’s needs before your own, then he’s never going to experience it, the self-centered asshole that he is. Tweek had been the closest he’d come to caring about someone more than himself, but in the end, his own selfishness won out. 

Tweek sighs, and there’s still an underlying fondness to his gaze, the one that Craig is sure is mirrored in his own. “I think you should go for it.” 

At Tweek’s sentiment, some kind of tension in Craig’s head snaps. He hadn’t known how much he needed to hear those words until this very moment. Tweek has never been very physically intimidating, but he’s still the most terrifying person Craig knows because he’s the only one who has ever gotten him to genuinely feel more than bored indifference. 

The next sentence out of Craig’s mouth is the hardest thing he’s had to say in two months: “I don’t know what to do.” He takes a deep breath and then adds, “I’m not good with words,” like Tweek’s never had to decipher the meaning behind every casual shrug and raised eyebrow, like he hadn’t watched Craig deliver a practiced speech about how it wasn’t working out anymore for the second time in his life and said nothing. 

Tweek pointedly looks down at the pictures he’s holding in his hand, a small smile on his face. He’s happy for Craig, and that comes as a punch to the gut because Tweek will always be too good for him. Craig’s lucky he even had him in the first place. “You don’t have to be.” 

Craig swallows tightly around the uncharacteristic emotion that’s swelling in his throat. “You know that you’ll always—” Fuck, he hates this so much. He wants to assure Tweek that he’s not trying to replace him. He wishes he could tell him that he’s not even sure if he _can_. “That I’ll always—” 

Tweek cuts him off, the lines around his lips softening. “Yeah. Yeah, Craig, I know.” He’s looking right at Craig, eyes shining, and this creates such a contrast from the last time Craig had seen him that he wants to imprint this instant in his memory to keep forever. “Me, too,” Tweek adds softly. 

Craig finally allows himself to stretch out his hand and take Tweek’s in his, and he’s pretty sure that Tweek’s relieved smile is echoed in his own. 

It feels like redemption.

—

The next time Kenny stays over, Craig doesn’t sleep. He spends the whole night holed up in his darkroom, impatiently waiting for his photos to develop. Once they’re done, he immediately looks through them until he finds what he’s searching for. 

It’s just a simple picture from that afternoon’s trip to their field, but this time, Craig had made sure to introduce Kenny as the focal point of the shot. In the photo, Kenny’s sitting with his legs crossed over his ankles, earphones plugged in and looking miles away from the dusty grassland they’d been in. 

The other stark difference to this picture is, Craig’s in the photo, too. It’s just a flash of his jacket sleeve, the dark blue color contrasting sharply with the muted hues depicted in the snapshot, but it already means more than anything he’s ever done.

He brings the picture back to his room and places it facedown on his desk, fiddling with a permanent marker. He contemplates writing on it, something that’ll make Kenny comprehend the words he wishes he could admit. _I like us_ , he wants to say. _I like myself when I’m with you._

Before sunrise, Craig sets the photo down next to the unconscious Kenny, the back still free of any writing. As he slips out of his room and into the early morning breeze, he knows that Kenny will figure it out.

—

It’s a lot cooler this time of the day, so Craig lifts a cigarette from his sweater pocket, leaning against the concrete wall of the manager’s office, one foot propped up behind him. In the light from the rising sun, everything around him is cast in shades of red and gold, and it’s eerily beautiful. 

There’s a scuffle somewhere to his right, and when he turns his head, Kenny is walking towards him—striding purposefully, messy hair whipping with the wind, soft brightness surrounding him. It’s like a scene straight out of a movie. 

Craig braces himself to give some kind of explanation, but Kenny just continues moving forward before Craig realizes how close he is, and his mouth opens for Kenny’s kiss, finally allowing himself to acknowledge how long he’s wanted to do this. Kenny kisses him hungrily, and Craig gives back in equal measure, gripping the edges of his shirt tightly like he never wants to let go. 

When they eventually break apart, Kenny says, “I finally saved up enough to visit the guys in Aspen. Come with me.” 

He doesn’t phrase it like a request, but more of a demand. Craig bristles automatically, but then Kenny’s head dips back down and presses his lips to the skin below Craig’s ear. “We can let them find out about us the same way Stan found out about Kyle and Cartman.”

Craig licks his lips as he points out, not really caring either way, “Cartman will freak.” 

Kenny grins at him as the sun finally rises, breaking free from the clouds and washing everything in its warm, bright light. “I fucking hope so.” Craig is so far gone. 

Instead of telling him this, Craig just pulls him back down for another kiss, and Kenny willingly lets him. With each passing second, Craig feels the space within his chest recede little by little, until he forgets that there was ever a hole in the first place. 

He knew Kenny would understand.


End file.
